


Never knew it (but of course I was)

by telemachus



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Rising-verse AU, elves are weird, political awakening, post-LOTR, sexual awakening, the personal is political
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 06:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17360882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: After the War of the Ring is over, Legolas returns to the Forest of his father, accompanied by Glorfindel. Their relationship is a surprise to the elves there, and to one in particular.But in the end, isn't knowing the truth of yourself the greatest gift of all?One for anyone who wondered about that relationship in Rising-verse, and for anyone who ever wanted to see more of Caradhil.





	Never knew it (but of course I was)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consumptive_sphinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/gifts), [Wynja2007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/gifts).
  * Inspired by [a man of honour (say no to this)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15392556) by [consumptive_sphinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx). 
  * Inspired by [The Lay of Glorfindel and Erestor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257701) by [telemachus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus). 



> _I was touched_   
>  _By the hand of God_   
>  _Never knew it_   
>  _But of course I was_   
>  _I never hoped to do the things in this world_   
>  _I wanted to_   
>  _Because everything I own_   
>  _It belongs to you_   
>  _I never looked at you in a sexual way_   
>  _In my life before_   
>  _And I've never woken up like this_   
>  _So desperately before_
> 
>  
> 
> New Order, Touched by the Hand of God
> 
>  
> 
> For consumptive_sphinx, who wrote the original AU (as it were) that inspired this.  
> And for Wynja2007, who keeps me going when the writing isn't.

At last, at last, his prince, his sweet prince is back. 

He is here, he is now returned to the Forest, the long months of waiting are over. Back so soon, back before the leaves are fully turned from green to yellow, back before the year has begun to fade. Back while the rejoicing is still unfinished, the War still newly over, the grief of so many losses still raw.

Caradhil stands for long moments, his eyes fixed upon his prince, his sweet prince, his Legolas, as he speaks. Ostensibly to the King, but the words are – are addressed to his father, searching, as always for approval.

There is no flick of eyes into the crowd, no attempt to look for his elves, for his own group, and Caradhil cannot, will not, let it worry him. Ever has his prince been so, ever the longing for words of praise from the King has been so much to him – to him as to every elf in this kingdom, surely.

The tale draws to an end, and then – then unlooked for, there is a hand gesture, a sweeping movement to encompass the one who, Caradhil now sees, stands beside him,

“And so my lord King, I would not only beg your forgiveness for my lack of permission to go on this quest, but I would crave your indulgence, your welcome, to one who – who I know you have already guested long during this War, one whom indeed I understand you knew well long ago. One who fought beside you and your elves in this last war, one who fought beside you the day you met she who became your Queen, one who is truly a hero above all others. One whose strength and courage are legendary, one whose honour is as dear to me as mine own, dearer far than life. One whom I am now proud to call – “ he hesitates, flushes, looks down and away and then back, “to call combmate. My lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower.”

There is silence.

Caradhil feels his face freeze, feels the eyes upon him, feels rather than hears the whispers start.

Caradhil for a long moment is still.

His eyes on his prince, his sweet prince.

He swallows, slowly, and watches, as the lord Glorfindel, the beautiful warrior Glorfindel, the confident, lordly Vanyar Glorfindel, blond Glorfindel, smiles, and walks with hands outstretched to the King.

Watches as he greets the King, Caradhil’s King, by name, easily, and with touch of ear as though by right, as though between equals.

Watches and listens as he praises Caradhil’s prince, Caradhil’s sweet, sweet prince, as he draws him forward to his father, as, at his urging, and it is a subtle, gentle urging, father reaches to son, touches ears, clasps arms, praises and welcomes.

Listens to the words around him, feels the eyes on him.

Silently asks the Valar for strength, for the strength to stand in silence, to hold on, as he has held on all these months, as he held on through battle, through pain and grief and loss. 

And when the gathering begins to break up, he finds the strength to walk – walk not run – away.

 

 

 

 

Meieriel it is who comes to him. She comes not with words of comfort, of commiseration, of anything so unbearable, she comes with cold hard sense.

“Now is not the time to hide away,” she says, and he cannot even look at her, but must stare fixedly at his comb, his unoffered, unexchanged comb held cold and unmoving in his own hand, at the leafmould; at the patterns of light on the leaves of a bush, a bush similar to one under which a lost and frightened elfling once sheltered, “Hiding away does but fuel the ready tongues. He is your prince, your lord – nothing more was promised, nothing more spoken. So you have always said, and so you must now show them. Come to the Feast tonight, come and drink and laugh and comb – comb above all – comb who you will, but let it not be said that tonight of all nights Caradhil did not comb.”

He swallows, rubs his nose,

“I cannot,” in a low voice, “my friend, friend of so many days, I hear your words and yes, you speak well, but – I cannot.”

She steps closer, takes his arm, “You can,” she says, and shakes him as a parent shakes a child when it freezes at the sight of danger, “you can and will. Or else all those words were a lie, all that you are and could be will be as nothing – nothing more than a rejected suitor of a fickle princeling.”

And that, that word, fickle, is what does it. Caradhil turns, anger in his eyes, but before he can answer, she nods and continues,

“Yes. That is what they will say of him. And of you. Is that what you would have?”

He sighs,

“No. You are right. Let us go to this Feast, let us be as elves are, as Silvans without Sindar amongst us, let them sit only at the Royal Table, golden Sindar and Vanyar together,” he draws himself upright, breathes, “I am Silvan, I am Caradhil. This I can do.”

 

 

 

 

The Feast is but the first of many such meals – the first and the most painful, because most prolonged, but not in essence different to the rest. Caradhil is aware of eyes on him, of elves talking as only elves can talk – not, he supposes idly, that he has evidence for this. After all, barring a few short years on raft-duty, a few visits to Esgaroth, speech with a dwarf-envoy, and once, long ago, trading a deer for some jewelled trinkets at a market stall – what knows he of other races, other lands? 

Be that as it may, elves talk. It is, as Meieriel told him, necessary to give them as little of which to talk as possible – and so he keeps his eyes on those around him, his ears atuned to their conversation, his hands gesture only between his friends, his group. When the dancing begins, he is careful to keep on so, to look at Meieriel, at Finrusc, at Maegsigil, at those with whom he is like to comb that night.

He does not look to the table where sits his prince, where the lord Glorfindel talks, and laughs, and – and draws forth reluctant smiles from the King with, perhaps, remembrance of years long past. Where cups are shared and words not heard often in the Forest are spoken. 

Evening succeeds evening, and he does not look. He does not stare and wonder at a prince who is not – not shining and golden as elves in love are shining and golden. But of course, this prince is Sindar, not Silvan. Doubtless they are different in this as in so much, doubtless their heads rule their hearts and they conduct themselves with – with more decorum. So he supposes, for what are those who have newly declared themselves combmates, if not in love? 

But that is a question Caradhil does not, dares not, ask. 

He does not let himself wonder at a prince who once was wont to whirl and dance among his elves, yet now, now sits as royal elves should. Does not let himself ask what has brought this change.

Does not let his eyes wander to the lord Glorfindel, as he speaks easily and laughing, a bridge between prince and King.

Does not watch as the lord’s hand idly plays with Legolas’ braid, as his arm pulls the prince close and holds him tight, as Caradhil’s prince, his sweet prince, drinks from the lord’s cup and offers food from his own plate.

How can he watch? 

How can he not?

There are, as the visit draws on, evenings when the King leaves the Hall before the music is done, when the dancing is still wild. Evenings when the prince dances – not simply as one of them, as he once did, but – with the lord. In front of all, the prince dances with the lord and the dance is not – is not quite as one would expect.

Yet Caradhil has not the knowledge of what is different, only that something is.

 

 

 

 

Days pass, as days in the Forest do. Caradhil is still at the Halls, his group has not been sent out on patrol – it occurs to them to wonder how much the patrols will be needed now. Still there are spiders, still there are orcs, but – but already the Forest begins to change, a lighter, easier feel in the air, a happier song in the trees. 

It occurs to Caradhil to wonder how long the prince and his – his combmate – will stay. How long before they go – and then he catches at the thought and wonders – will they go? Where will they go?

The lord Glorfindel has no lands of his own.

It cannot be possible – at least, it seems unlikely, but then, so many things seem unlikely and yet they come to pass – it seems unlikely that the King would give his consent for his son to live and work as an elf of the household of the lord Elrond of Imladris, Noldor, peredhel, that he is.

Caradhil, thinking this, forces himself to look in the face of the possibility, the likelihood, that the prince and his combmate will stay in the Forest.

That, given time, and time is not something of which elves are short, his prince could become king, his King leave, sail.

Elves are sailing, leaving these shores, hearing the call of the sea. Ever since the end of the War, every word from outside the Forest has said this – and while Silvans have no longing to sail, no dreams of the West, their King, Caradhil’s King, is no Silvan. His wife sailed, long ago.

“What then, Caradhil,” Finrusc asks at combing, as they all play through the possibility which, as is the way of groups, of elves, has risen to the top of each mind now, “what then for you – for any of us – if our group has no prince – what are we?”

Caradhil has no words.

The group ponders, suggestions are made, but there is a feeling among them that perhaps – perhaps the time of this group is over, perhaps after so many losses in battle it is time to move apart, move on, as one does.

And never before has the effort involved seemed so great.

 

 

 

 

Days pass, night pass, as days and nights do.

Surrounded, protected, by his friends, his group, it takes time before Caradhil hears the mutterings, the whisperings, the rumours.

Had he not a friend such as Finrusc, it might be longer. But Finrusc has ever been one to speak when the wise elf is silent, ever one to part the leaves and let light onto that which was better hidden.

He means no harm, he has no thought to the consequences. Finrusc being as Finrusc is, it is doubtful he even suspects there may be consequences when he says, idly,

“Glad I am that we rest not within the palace in this season – they say it was another noisy night last night – and who can be surprised? Ever was our prince the best, the most Silvan by nature of all our beloved Sindar royal house, and they so new vowed, who can be surprised at the song from him,” he laughs, and even as Caradhil blinks, and moves not a muscle of his face, he continues, unknowing what he does, “yet when I was with Doroniel and the elves that are have charge of that wing, they were saying it is not mere song alone. It is – cries and gasps and – one would think that the lord Glorfindel were some elleth and they two married not merely vowed.”

There is a silence, and then, as Caradhil does not, cannot speak, cannot break in to defend and change the subject, one by one they begin to talk,

“I heard that – that there is more than combing between them,”  
“more than combing,”  
“whatever that means,”  
“what can be more than combing between two?”  
“more than combing – like mortals – so someone said,”  
“and then – they said – well, that is what happens when you leave the Forest alone,”  
“the prince should never have gone alone,”  
“someone should have prevented it,”  
“someone should have been there,”  
“some friend should have travelled with him,”  
“one of his group,”  
“why did none of us go?”  
“yes, that is what someone said to me – why did none of our group go with him – and I had no answer,”  
“there is no answer,”

And Caradhil could weep.

For there is an answer.

I was forbidden.

I would have gone – I would have followed my prince anywhere – but I was forbidden. And I, like a fool, obeyed.

But how could I not obey my King?

 

 

 

 

 

Bad though that evening is, it is not the worst.

The worst, surely this must be the worst, is when, by chance – if chance you call it – Caradhil meets the prince, his sweet prince, at the archery range.

And his prince is not alone.

The lord Glorfindel is there also, laughing and smiling and talking to elves – the lord Glorfindel who has, it seems, not a care in the world. He is taking an archery lesson,

“For the bows you use, the way you shoot is so different to all that I learned long ago – and it is many years now since I had need to rely on my archery. But fine though a sword is, you cannot hunt deer with one, and it seems to us that I had best improve my skills before we journey on – else I will indeed be but a burden to my Legolas. There is no point expecting me to learn aught of plants and food-gathering in that way – and good Silvans, I am not going to be eating anything too small to shoot.”

That gets laughter, good humoured as the watching elves remember his horror at the serving of spiders – remember too his attempt to join in, to understand their customs, and Caradhil – Caradhil is horrified to find he is almost – almost – as jealous of the laugh, and the easy confidence, the lordliness of him, as he is of the look shared between the two, of the comb fixed casually in Legolas’ hair. A comb he does not recognise, a comb that bears, engraved in one corner, a beautiful golden flower that grows not this side of the Sea.

Even as he stares, Legolas turns, and smiles, an easy meaningless smile, and comes towards him, hands outstretched,

“Caradhil, at last – how has it been that I have not seen you? Where have you been – I looked for you, I hoped to see you, to see our group – to join you – but I have not seen you.”

Caradhil takes the offered hands, but – something in him breaks at the words, even as ears are touched, as is right between two who have known each other so long.

“I have been – where I am usually to be found,” he says, and then smiles, to take away the sting of rebuke, even as he wants to shake his sweet, blind prince – because it is not possible to hurt someone you have cared for so long. At least, not for Caradhil, “and glad I am to see you, my sweet prince,” he pauses, wondering suddenly whether those words are – are right to use to one who is another’s combmate.

And the blush that sweeps over Legolas tells him all he needs to know, even as he speaks again, hurriedly,

“Caradhil – I – I would speak with you – walk with me a while – I – I would not have others hear me – I – if you please?”

They turn and walk, and for long moments all is as it ever was, as it should be, but Caradhil cannot hide from his ears the note of – of concern, of worry, in Legolas’ song.

“My prince,” he says, and surely, surely it is allowed to say this, “my prince – is all well with you – is the lord Glorfindel – you are happy?”

_Do you love him?_

And then, he cannot stop himself, 

“In all the months you were away – you were vowed to him – from when you left Imladris, before he came here? Strange it is that he spoke not of you, that none knew.”

_Does he love you?_

Strange that you sent no message to us, your group.

_Do you love him?_

The song beside him hesitates, stumbles, and Caradhil stops, turns to face his unmoving prince, even as Legolas examines the Forest floor,

“All is well, and – and more than well – and – no. We were not vowed – not all that time – at least – we combed – and – and Caradhil – you must have heard – there is more than combing – and that – that has been between us all this time – and – we did not know he would come here – I could not have sent word – and besides what would I have said?”

That you had found another.

_Do you love him?_

That I need not wait.

_Does he love you?_

But these are words that cannot be spoken aloud.

“I – yes – all is well – and I am happy – of course I am – how could you ask? When one has – has vowed – can you not see that all is well with me?”

_Do you love him?_

And still there is something in the song that says – no. Not all is well, but I cannot explain it. All should be well.

_Does he love you?_

Caradhil does not answer, not for a long moment, and then, 

“What is this – this is the second time I have heard it spoken – that there is more than combing between you? What can this mean – to vow to another – that is not so unusual, even between two warriors – but – more than combing? There _is_ no more than combing for elves,” and then, for surely, surely this does not need saying, “Legolas, my sweet, sweet prince, you – the Valar send elflings only to male and female – there is no more than combing for pairs such as you are.”

And now – now there is more blushing, and oh my sweet prince, how your ears flush, and – and I – I would touch them now, and – and you lick your lips and look away and down and back – and – and what is this? This feeling – this – what are you saying?

“There is more – Caradhil – so much more – I cannot – I have barely the words – but – I since we began – I burn, I burn for him – I would have – I do have – every night – his hands, his lips on me – and mine on him – everywhere – I – do you not know of this – this – more than combing – this – this which mortals do – kissing they call it and more – and – like it is to the getting of elflings, but male and male – and – oh Caradhil – dearest and best of friends – how can you not see that all is well and more than well with me?”

_But do you love him, does he love you?_

Yet still my prince – you do not glow golden as I would have you golden. 

You do not shine as – as once I saw your father the King shine, long ago, when his queen was with him.

You do not shine, you are not golden as I – I hoped one day to see you dance with all that is in you shining.

As I hoped – to see you for me.

Caradhil swallows.

It is as though one has followed a track, a winding pretty track, down past trees one knows, and beyond, trusting, and then – then suddenly one steps off a precipice and into a nest of spiders.

He is cold.

And long it is since he felt the cold like this, long years have passed since he knew what horror meant.

I never wanted this – this which you speak of – this – this is not what I longed for, my prince. You were – you are – as an elfling to me.

I would indeed see you golden – but – not in that way. 

Not for me, not with me.

Yet if you – if this is – is this what they think, my friends, my group, the elves around me who know little of me – is this what they think I asked of you?

Is this – this Noldor thing which you have learnt, this mortal thing – this – this more than – _less than_ – combing – is this what others think of me?

And Caradhil backs away.

“My prince,” he says, for there is something in Legolas’ eyes that tells him his face is not unchanged, that his distress must show, and – and this is his elfling, those eyes have not changed, he cannot, must not, hurt him, “my prince, I know not what you mean – I ask that you speak no more of this – I am – I cannot – be happy my prince, be happy with your lord, and be well – and – give me not this knowledge.”

For the first time for many a year, he turns and walks away.

_But do you love him, does he love you, my prince, answer me this?_

 

 

 

 

 

Yet even that, that horror, that moment of half-understanding, is not the worst.

Long years later, Caradhil will look back and know that – had that been the worst, had Legolas waited to speak until the last evening of their visit – he would have remained content. Unchanged. Grieved, yes indeed, grieved and lonely for a time – but – Caradhil is as Caradhil is, he would have moved on, comb in hand, in time there would yet have been other elves, maybe even one to love, one to have elflings with, or not, years upon years of life at court, life on patrol, life in the Forest now remade.

But timing has never been Legolas’ strong point, neither timing nor the understanding that words have consequences for others.

And perhaps too, Legolas has his own needs, his own desires, which surpass Caradhil’s understanding.

However it is, from that day forth, he and the lord Glorfindel seem to cease even their half-hearted attempts at hiding what is between them. At least, Legolas does – he seems reckless, abandoned, almost – brazen – if an elf can be brazen.

Caradhil finds that every elf in the Forest, it seems, knows what is between the prince and his – his lord – knows and has their own opinion. Some laugh, some are shocked, some shrug and say it is not for the likes of them to judge Sindar behaviour – yet every one of them looks sidelong and curious at Caradhil. Judging, laughing, wondering, each according to their nature, and Caradhil’s ears burn with it.

Is that the worst of it? That there are now elves, many elves, who think him – tainted by this mortal thing. Who suppose that anything his prince knows, he taught him – and oh the irony of it, this being the one thing he never taught – how could he when he knows it not and has no need or desire? Elves who look at him and whisper, elves who remember Aglarcu, sweet Aglarcu, elves who have long wondered what held Aglarcu so long waiting, elves who think they now understand. Elves who suddenly go out of their way to avoid him, or worse, to keep their sons, their brothers, their cousins, away from him. 

Elves talk, he has long known this – and it is best to give them something you would choose for them to say of you, lest they find something else. All his life he has lived by this rule, be what you wish to seem, yet now – now by the actions, the words, of his prince he is made powerless.

 

 

 

 

That though – surely that is the worst? Surely there can be nothing worse than to be shunned, to be looked at askance, to know the gossip is, for the first time, lies? To know that the lies hurt not only you, but your – your friend – your lost friend?

To be forced to question yourself – was there any truth in it – for though I know that I never had a thought of – of this – how can I be sure that Aglarcu, that my – my dear Aglarcu – that he had not? And do I slander him even in my thoughts that I wonder – or did I hurt him more even than I ever knew?

Surely actually hearing – _hearing_ that of which all have been speaking – surely that cannot be worse?

Had Caradhil been asked, so he would have said, that nothing could be worse than the eyes, the whispers, the combs unproffered. 

So he would have said before the day he went, as any elf might have gone, sent by his King, hurrying at the command of a beautiful gesture to fetch his prince from the armoury.

The day he stood, ears burning with – and there is no elven word for this feeling – elves do not feel the need to hide anything that is natural to them, elves do not hide the body or what it can do, and feel no need to turn away from others. Newly-weds may choose to celebrate in privacy – but there is no need for it – many years indeed it is since Caradhil understood how like other animals elves are, and how exactly one requests, with any hope of success, that the Valar send an elfling. 

-“yes, like that, oh good, very good my young one, like that, your mouth – so pretty, so clever,” – 

The day he stood, then, ears burning, horrified, and yet also unwillingly amused to find that the lord Glorfindel, Vanyar though he is, speaks in the common tongue at such a moment, yet his sweet prince remains, as ever, inarticulate and stumbling.

-“my – my lord, please – oh please my lord, more – fill me, use me – oh my lord Glorfindel,”-

The day he heard and saw more than he ever needed.

-“yes, that’s it, my pretty one, my colt, that is what you want, is it not? Tell me, scream it aloud, tell everyone,”

“oh my lord, please – oh please yes, yes – oh do not stop, do not ever stop –“

The day he – for the best reasons, the only reason, it seems afterwards to him, that he has done anything these long years – the day he, wishing only to best serve his King and his prince, waited until all seemed calm and quiet once more, then gave his message, and then, being told that there would be some small delay, 

– “Your prince is hardly able to walk right now, hunter, let alone run along to see whatever it is his noble father would have him take interest in,” – 

hastened himself instead to give the message.

The day he failed to phrase it in bland enough words, used words that, coupled with his glowing ears and disordered hair – elf that he is – must have left the King in no doubt precisely why his son appeared not.

And the King has never been one to suffer such behaviour.

As once before, he is angry, angry with Caradhil, with the messenger.

This time from across the room, Caradhil sees Arasfaron, shaking his head, signalling no, speak more carefully – but it is too late. Caradhil’s mind is disordered, his world is shaking, and he has for once no thought of the consequences of his words.

“My King,” he says, and, unheard of liberty, stands without permission, “my King, blame me not for the words I bring you. Blame me not for the actions of Legolas, your son, who was always my prince. Had you – had you given me leave to travel with him, as I longed to do, as he wished – I cannot say what would then have befallen, but –“

The King steps forward, enraged as he is rarely seen, and with one backhanded blow, Caradhil is on the floor, sprawling at his feet,

“You cannot say,” Thranduil speaks low and yet the words carry around the Hall, “no, indeed, _hunter,_ you cannot say. The Forest knows what you desired, _hunter,_ yet no son of mine will exchange combs with a Silvan. For good reason did I not give you leave to journey –“

But Caradhil also is angry, and transgression upon transgression, he rolls smoothly onto his feet once more and breaks into the King’s speech,

“Better combmates with a Silvan, with a _hunter,_ ” he also spits the word, “with one of your soldiers, King, one who has fought and killed for you – one who lives only for you and yours – one who would die for you and yours, one whose parents did die for you and yours – one whose – whose dear friend – died that I might save your son – better combmates with me, well-used though my comb is, than this – this unelven – whatever he now is – with a born-again Vanyar steward to a peredhel.”

There is silence, close to silence, the only sound is Caradhil’s breathing. Harsh, urgent breathing, as though he has run, fought, for many hours. 

The surrounding elves are turned away, trying not to see, not to appear to be listening, rapt though they all are.

The silence stretches.

Caradhil’s breath calms.

But his world is broken.

His prince, his sweet prince, to behave so – to – there are not words – to behave like that, in view of any – with this – this elf from over the sea, this _foreigner._

There is a terrible emptiness within him – a desolation like that made by orcish burning. To have lost all that gave him purpose – and for what? For something which is not, to his eyes and ears, love.

And desolation gives a terrible freedom.

Somewhere deep inside, he knows he has gone too far.

He stares at the floor, waiting for the King to decree his sentence.

Thranduil also stands, motionless, his face as ever a beautiful mask that none may read.

Into the long moment, Legolas walks, unhurried, unworried.

“Ada,” he says, “you sent for me?” and looks between the two elves, looks around, noticing as though for the first time the silence, the lack of song, of chatter, of all that is normal in this Hall.

The King blinks, and seems to focus only with effort on his son,

“Legolas, indeed, there was some matter about which Arasfaron thought you might be best consulted, after your travels and bearing in mind your guest friendship with so many mortals,” he beckons the counsellor, “this agreement with the dwarves – explain your concern,” and then a dismissive hand-wave, “you have our leave to depart, _hunter._ ”

Caradhil bows, and walks away.

Back held straight.

 

 

 

 

Of course, elves being elves, the tale is all round the Hall by nightfall. 

This time Meieriel does not come to him, does not say – show your face, ride it out. This time, he has gone too far.

Instead, next morning, when it is clear that the time is past for such a strategy, she comes to him and says,

“What meant you by it?”

No explanation necessary, there is only one thing that she can refer to.

Caradhil looks away, rubs his nose, “I know not, not precisely,” he begins, “I – I do not even want to know – at least – I do know, but I have not the words. I have not, not for what they are to each other – “

She waves a hand dismissively,

“I know what they are to each other, and so does every elf who has spent time among the mortal world who has eyes to look and the wit to notice – that you did not – well, Caradhil, you have many great virtues, and hunter’s focus is one of them. Let us leave it at that. We know how it is, and we understand little and care less. It is not that of which I would speak.”

Caradhil shakes himself a little. Always one to surprise, Meieriel, in her acceptance of that which to him seems – too much.

“What then?” he asks,

“Your words to the King,” she says, impatient now, “your – what meant you?”

He shrugs,

“Little enough it seems to me,” he says, knowing he lies, for underneath it all, underneath the confusion, the rumour, the whispering, the – the shame – this is what has broken him.

She raises an eyebrow, and he continues,

“Little enough – in the way that a pebble is little before it rolls down a slope filled with loose stones. I meant only – what gave him the right to deny my service to my prince? What gave him the right to prevent my journey, to prevent my offering him my comb? – What – Meieriel – tell me – what gives Sindar rights over Silvan? And why may I not question this?”

There is silence for a moment, and Caradhil dares slowly look up, meet her eyes.

“Long it is that question has been in my heart,” she answers him, “and glad am I that you have found your own way to it – grieves me though it does the manner of your coming.”

Then she sits beside him, and reels a list of names, elves who might also think in this way, elves with whom she thinks he should comb, should speak – “for all know, that what Caradhil thinks today, those whom he combs think tomorrow” – and even, it seems, she has heard of a place where they can go.

“in the north,” she says, “beyond the Northern Halls even, far north, there is – I believe – I have heard – elves have gone there, elves who did not fit in. I think – so it was said when I worked among the Shadows,”

She sees Caradhil’s blank face, 

“- the Shadows of the Forest, Arasfaron’s – oh, never mind, I will explain another time – there will be time. Indeed, we may find we need our own Shadows, or something like them – this could be – this could be something new, Caradhil, something – something different. A chance for Silvans to grow their own way of life, Silvans without Sindar – think of it, Caradhil, what could not you and I do?”

Caradhil nods, still reluctant, still at heart wishing for some way back.

But there is no way back, things done cannot be undone, words cannot be unspoken, and as sure as birds migrate, before the turn of the year a party of elves are leaving the Halls, heading North.

As they prepare to depart, Caradhil turns and looks, one last time, for his prince, his sweet prince, but Legolas is not there.

Sometime in the days just gone, he and his lord left, rode away, no farewell said, and Caradhil – Caradhil knows he will never see that elfling again.

Did the elfling he loved – did he ever truly exist? Was all of it as false as the ending?

_My prince do you love him, does he love you?_

Enough. Enough years wasted, enough blood spent. Time for – for something new.

But in turning to look, he sees instead his King, and something – something that he still cannot name, something that is not loyalty, or repentance, something else, sends him back to kneel once more before him, head bowed.

“My lord King,” he says, and really that is all, simply to acknowledge this truth one last time, you are my King, you will always be my King – in my heart – though I can no longer believe it good that elves live so, “my lord King, have we – have I your leave to depart?”

Thranduil looks down at him, unreadable as ever, and after a long moment, stretches out his hand, offering his knuckles and royal ring for the kiss of fealty. Caradhil, though he knows what Meieriel will say, touches his King’s hand one last time, and pledges his allegiance without words.

“You have my leave to depart,” Thranduil says and in a new gesture, places his hands to Caradhil’s ears, a touch, not of equals but of release from service and then, after a moment, “rise, hunter, rise and go as you have long wished to do.”

Caradhil rises, but it is as one in a dream that he bows, and slowly, slowly walks away.

As they pass him, Arasfaron touches Caradhil’s shoulder,

“I think it is well that you go North,” he says, low-voiced, “look well at those who are there. You will find, Caradhil, some comfort among them, I believe.”

But the words mean nothing.

How can words mean anything?

How can there be comfort anywhere in this world, when one is suddenly confronted with the truth of oneself?

That after all this time, all the years and words and denial – that after all that – love – no, not love – this, this other, this – unelven – this desire, this need, this _want_ can indeed exist.

Love has been there all along, had you only not been blind and foolish.

Loyalty – love could have allowed you many years of happiness, serving your King – had your prince not come blundering in, showing you what it was you lacked, making you understand, forcing you to see – to know, when he touched you – bringing you alive to all that you had never known, never wanted, never even dreamt existed.

Had you not known of this burning, this need, this – this desire – had you never dreamt that such things could be between ellon and ellon – then you would not now be in this agony.

Your world would not be splitting asunder even as you ride.

You would not hate yourself, despise yourself, for the need, the crying aching pain that would have you back there at his feet – at his feet – as low and scorned as – as you saw that your prince was by his lord. You would not hear again those words, those sounds, and now – now not merely with pain for your prince but with shame. Shame at the feelings they invoke, the need, the longing. 

For this – this is not love. Not as you dreamt it could be, in the cold watches of the night, when you were alone and allowed yourself to dream – this is not that love, wanting the best for each other, caring for one another – this is not love. This – this is something else, something mortal.

Something that no elf should feel.

Yet you do.

Your prince has given you this knowledge, and ridden away, leaving you to suffer.

Had he not, you might have been content for years, centuries, the rest of your life, to serve and be loyal, to – to love – in the way of elves for Kings of elves. Had he not, you would be content, you would not now be in this agony. Had he not, you might never have spoken of the injustices you have seen these many years, you might have stayed silent, stayed at home. Had he not, you might have no need to go out, North, start something new.

And the years ahead, the years of revolution, might not need be so bloody.

 

 

 

 

 

.

**Author's Note:**

> In case this isn't obvious (I'd rather hope it is), it isn't the two-males aspect of the relationship between Legolas & Glorfindel that is the issue - that's fine. It's the sex side of it - especially the suspicion that they are not in fact in love. For Rising-verse elves, sex without love (and "true love", vowing for evermore, at that) is so taboo as to be unheard of, well-nigh impossible... something so shameful only mortals could possibly do it.


End file.
